Native Wolf Read Online Free Page A

of the Parker house, he stopped to remove the noose from Thunder’s neck. Seizing the opportunity, Claire thrust out with her feet, kicking one of the beast’s hocks, hoping to spook the horse into galloping back to the ranch.
    But the Indian calmed the animal with a few murmurs and a pat to Thunder’s flank, turning on Claire with a withering glare, as if she’d kicked the horse just for spite.
    He righted her then, planting her atop the weed-choked ground. Before she could catch her balance, he dropped the noose about her, cinching it tightly around her waist.
    When he casually swept up the hem of her petticoat, exposing her knees, Claire’s eyes widened, and her heart skittered along her ribs. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about the man’s intent after all.
    But, drawing his knife, he slashed a long strip from the hem and let the garment fall. Then he put away the blade and seized one of her hands.
    Instinctively she pulled away, but was caught fast in his great fist. He looped the cloth around her wrist, pulled it behind her, and crossed it over the other hand, knotting the cotton strips together.
    Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped back, his thumbs hooked insolently into the waistband of his trousers. She stared at him, wondering how drunk he must be to take pride in subduing a woman her size.
    He must have read her mind. A scowl darkened his features, and for a moment, Claire thought she detected a hint of shame marring his drunken arrogance. Then he growled and turned his back on her, destroying all notions of civility.
    In a movement surprisingly fluid for such a large man, he swung up atop Thunder. Coiling the loose end of the rope around his fist, he nudged the horse forward. The rope pulled taut around her waist, and Claire was forced to follow.
    Caught off guard, she staggered and almost fell. What kind of abduction was this? Surely the man would want to flee as swiftly as possible to avoid capture. Why wasn’t he sweeping her up and tearing off across the countryside?
    He rode slowly, but keeping up was difficult. Claire was no longer accustomed to walking barefoot. Her father had cured her of that uncivilized habit years ago. The ground was rocky and uneven. Every few steps, she winced as star thistles bristled against her ankles and sharp pebbles poked her heels. Burrs caught in what was left of her lace hem, and her petticoat grew sodden with its harvest of dew.
    She twisted her ankle on a stone and nearly went down again. The pain as she hobbled forward made her eyes water, but she didn’t dare stop. She feared if she hesitated, he’d ride on anyway, dragging her through the thistles.
    But despite her best efforts to be stoic, her eyes filled with tears. A trickle wound its way down her cheek and was swallowed up by the cotton binding her mouth.
    It wasn’t the pain that triggered her crying. And it wasn’t fear, not really. It was grief.
    From the day that Yoema fell ill, Samuel Parker had insisted that Claire hide her sorrow. After all, no one knew the truth about Yoema's relationship to Claire. They assumed the native woman was a servant, no more. So for the sake of propriety and obedience to her father, Claire had kept a stiff upper lip and denied herself the relief of tears. Yoema had been buried quietly, and Claire was expected to carry on as if nothing had happened.
    But now she was removed from the eyes of society, stripped of everything that had kept her sailing on a shaky but even keel. Her emotions felt as raw as the soles of her feet. And her father wasn't around to witness her weeping, to be disappointed in her. So all the pain she’d bottled up inside, all the bittersweet memories she’d repressed, all the tears she’d been unable to shed, gushed forth in a torrent so powerful that before long, her chest heaved with wrenching sobs and the gag grew wet with her weeping.
    She no longer cared about the stones cutting her feet, no longer wondered about her captor. All she could